


A private comment

by Naquar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Confessions, Desperation, John Watson's Blog, Love Confessions, M/M, POV John Watson, Possibly Unrequited Love, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27998682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naquar/pseuds/Naquar
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 9





	A private comment

From Dr Watson's blog

Private comment: 

Honestly, I don't even know why I'm writing here; they say it's important to keep a blog or a personal journal, to vent all your anger or feelings. Confide your secrets.  
In fact, it seems like a no-brainer to me, but I've found that it's needed instead.  
It's been two months since Sherlock died: right in front of my eyes he jumped off the roof.  
It all started with a very complex case, like a game of mirrors and labyrinths, which I won't go into again.  
The culprit then turned up, like a spring-loaded puppet: James Moriarty  
During the investigation period, I tried to give a "definition" to a person like him, but I found it difficult: he was so chameleon-like and slimy, that when he got into the heads of his victims they became puppets.  
Sherlock experienced this himself and I must say he was fascinated; and as a final act, Moriarty shot himself in the head, dragging my friend all the way to hell. 

My psychotherapist said I have to grieve and try hard not to feel guilty, I know that much.  
Of course, how can you not feel it when your best friend is jumping off a cliff? But I can't stop thinking about the fact that I wasn't able to save him. 

After the funeral, I decided I wasn't going to live on Backer Street any more, so I looked for a flat near my place of work.  
Then when I found it, Harry came over to help me arrange the furniture. I must say it was a constant argument!  
Obviously Mrs Husdon, our former landlady, didn't like my decision at all, but she preferred not to insist. However, we have not lost touch, and I visit her from time to time.  
Who knows why I found myself staring at the armchair where Sherlock was sitting. 

And then...  
And then...  
There's something else.  
I've never been able to confess it to her in person.  
That's the most painful part of the whole thing, and I'm not the kind of person who can easily express my feelings.  
In fact, I had already realised this for a long time, I don't know how long, to be precise.  
It was so easy!  
At first, I thought it was fascination or some bullshit of a cold and unfriendly character, but when Sherlock showed me several times, even that he was vulnerable, that he needed me and vice versa: I ended up really falling in love with him.  
My heart reacted with a jolt when he touched me, and he did it often and willingly: a hand touched mine, or I found him on me when he invaded my personal space to take something; I found myself smelling his perfume or his dishevelled curls touching my skin, or when he gave me real smiles, quite rare.  
A part of me suspected that Sherlock had figured that out long ago.  
And wanted to see which one of us would crack first.  
Because maybe he, too...  
Damn it, I can't say.  
I preferred to keep quiet though, on the one hand that scared the hell out of me, but on the other hand, I didn't want to lose our friendship.  
There were so many unspoken things between us...  
If I had to go back, I would maybe leave him.  
I love you.  
That's the point. 

I miss him so much.  
The chases, our fuck-ups, his improbable experiments and...  
That's it. I think I'd spend another thousand words writing about him.  
Goodness, I hope I don't get too sentimental, like Mrs Husdon and I don't know what I'd give to see you on the doorstep again and hear you say, "I'm here."

John Watson.

Location unknown.

Thin, tapered finger follows the line: 'I love you'.  
A bloodstained hand.  
It wasn't at all difficult to hack into John's account, which uses passwords that are really far too simple.  
I love you.  
That hurt him, even in his pride.  
Why didn't you just write it to him instead of writing it?  
He has lost weight, his hair's gotten longer, and he looks tired.  
Believe me, John, it's not something I want, but it's necessary.  
Same old story.  
I'm sorry.  
He hears footsteps behind him.  
He closes the laptop quickly, because he doesn't want the soldier to read what's on it, but maybe he won't even know English.  
He says something to him in his own language. "...Holmes."  
Sherlock sighs, gets up and follows him outside.


End file.
